“Not everyone knows this, but you’ve got one of the most famous tattoos in the world. It’s been in so many movies, and it’s got this tough, legendary vibe. Women are totally into it—Rihanna even licked it! I’m kind of jealous. So, what’s the story behind that tattoo? And I’m guessing you’ve met people who’ve had tattoos of you too, right?
Yeah, I have. The strangest one was with Danny Trejo. He was just starting out and ended up working on the first movie I did.
You were playing a criminal in that one, right?
Yeah. They told me, ‘You’re going to meet this former prisoner who’s now an actor.’ I showed him my tattoo and said, ‘I knew you before we even met.’ He looked at it and said, ‘That’s a picture of you, honey.’ And sure enough, it was a picture of a woman who looked just like me.
Then something unexpected happened—Salma invited Danny over to her place. That’s when she found out he wasn’t just any ex-con. Danny was actually one of the most feared inmates at San Quentin, the most notorious prison in America. You never really know what life has in store.
‘I’ve got about six on six, control!’ I’ve seen guys get stabbed in the neck, throats cut. San Quentin was the only prison in the state that used a gas chamber. It was home to some of the most dangerous people in the world. Manson himself might have been behind up to 35 murders. And trust me, if I started taking people out, none of you would be left.”
Danny was so feared that even Charles Manson asked him for protection. It’s almost hard to imagine that he was once that person. Before his life of crime, Danny was just a kid who loved playing with girls.
“My aunts and girl cousins adored me. We did everything away from the men—playing make-believe, dressing up, and playing with dolls. One day, my Uncle Rudy walked in and saw me in a dress, and he went crazy. In our family, being masculine was everything, all the time. And then, suddenly, I moved in with my dad, and everything changed.”
Fast forward to 1951. The Trejo family is having a barbecue, but six-year-old Danny is locked in the car, and everyone’s pretending it’s not happening. My aunts wanted to help, but they were too scared to get involved, so the picnic went on while I just sat there, watching.
Danny had learned that being a man meant never showing weakness, so he stayed quiet in the stifling heat.
“I started to drift off, fighting to stay awake. I leaned back against the seat, then curled up on the floor, barely holding on. Just as I was about to pass out, someone came to help me. My Uncle Gilbert was the only one who wasn’t afraid of my dad. Even though my father had told everyone to leave me in the car, Uncle Gilbert pulled me out. My dad started yelling at him, but Gilbert just told him to chill out. He was my hero. I prayed to God, ‘Please let me be like him.'”
As the years went by, Uncle Gilbert became the one person who gave Danny something his parents couldn’t.
“I remember trying to talk to my mom while she was on the phone, and she’d snap, ‘Shut up, can’t you see I’m on the phone, stupid?’ When I asked my dad something, he’d just brush me off. But when I said, ‘Hey, Gilbert,’ he’d stop and say, ‘Hold on, what’s up, mijo?’”
There was a reason Uncle Gilbert always had time for Danny.
Everyone knew what was going on. My mom and dad did everything they could to keep me away from him, but you know how it is. My uncle always had a roll of cash on him, and with that came the girls, the car, the money—I wanted all of it. I followed whatever Gilbert did. If he’d been into football, I would’ve been an athlete. But instead, he was a drug dealer and gangster. When I first realized Gilbert was doing robberies, I didn’t think it was wrong; I actually thought it was kind of heroic. Uncle Gilbert was the only man who showed Danny the kind of care he desperately wanted as a kid.
When Danny was eight, his first crime wasn’t about greed or anger—it was about compassion.
“One night, we were walking around, and we heard these cows mooing like they were in pain. It really got to us, so we climbed over this big fence and set them free. Those cows didn’t waste any time getting out of there. For a few hours, they must’ve felt like they were in heaven. But then the feds got involved because dairies are under the FDA’s jurisdiction.”
By the time Danny was 12, he started seeing a different side of his hero.
“Gilbert wasn’t that cool guy anymore; he was starting to act crazy. I remember seeing him with my grandfather’s syringe—my grandfather was diabetic. He yelled at me to get out of there, but I wasn’t backing down. ‘No, gimme some. Gimme some or I’m telling,’ I said. That’s how young I was—threatening to tell if I didn’t get my way. So, he handed me a belt and said, ‘Hold this.’ I held the belt while he did his thing. The syringe was glass, and when the needle hit, it was like this tiny explosion. Then BAM! He told me to let go, and I did. As soon as I let go, I saw this complete change in him—from crazy to… something different. He gave me a little bit of his Contin. The next thing I remember, I was sitting outside in my grandmother’s yard, soaking wet. I had overdosed. In that moment, you’re not thinking about school, parents, or anything else. Everything just fades away. And then, all I remember is hearing the ice cream truck and getting some ice cream.”
Danny ended up just like his uncle. A few years later, he found himself on a bus, heading to a place everyone calls The Arena.
“As you drive up the wall at Quentin and that gun tower comes into view, it hits you—you’re not coming out the same way you went in. This is the real deal. The second that bus stops, the tension is thick. The engine’s rumbling, but all you can hear is the chatter. Imagine standing next to someone who’s raging mad, then imagine 4,000 people like that. That’s the intensity in San Quentin. You either assert yourself or get pushed around. Someone’s gonna ask, ‘What size shoes are those?’ And if you don’t make a move right then, you’re seen as weak.”
Danny? He’s definitely not weak.
“I had someone to guide me—my uncle. He taught me everything I needed to know to survive. Some guys pass the time in the library, some do crossword puzzles, others play chess—I trained. That’s what kept me going. My uncle was the San Quentin champ in ‘66, ‘67, and ‘68.”
Danny got so good at defending himself, he started doing it for others too.
“We had this little protection ring going. If you thought someone was out to get you and told us, we’d take care of it. I feel sorry for the kids who end up in juvenile hall and don’t realize that if you’re in a fight, you need to go all out right away. You have to show them, ‘This guy isn’t just here to fight—he’s here to take over.’ At some point, you start to see what you’re becoming. I remember playing ‘Dominoes’ with a big group around me. It was a serious game with a lot of money on the line, and I was winning big. I set the spinner on double five, thinking, ‘I’ve got you all—this is my game.’ And then, out of nowhere, someone crashes into the table, bleeding. He’d been hit bad. Everyone started backing away, but I was yelling, ‘No, wait! Hold on!’ I was still shouting, ‘I’ve got fives, I’ve got fives!’ Later, in my cell, still holding my dominoes, I thought, ‘What the hell have I become?’ That guy was dying. He had a family—a mom, a dad, maybe brothers, sisters, even kids—and all I cared about was my game.”
That was the moment he knew he’d changed. He wasn’t Danny anymore; he’d turned into something else—something darker.
Danny thought back to the boy he once was, the one who actually cared about people.
“Sitting in solitary, it hit me that my life was at a turning point. I had to choose—either change my ways or spend the rest of my life locked up.”
That night, Danny made a decision. He was going to live by his own rules, not the ones Uncle Gilbert had drilled into him.
“I didn’t see it as reforming; I saw it as keeping a promise to myself. From that day on, I knew I had to do things for others without expecting anything in return.”
Three years later, Danny walked out of prison, claiming he was a changed man.
He came back to the house, walked up to the metal gate, and when my grandmother saw him, she opened the door but didn’t unlock the screen door. I told her, ‘Mom, can I stay for a couple of days? My parole plans fell through.’ She turned to my dad, who was sitting right there, and said, ‘Dan, Danny wants to know if he can stay a couple of days.’ My dad, without even looking up from the TV, just said, ‘Yeah, tell him yes.’ I walked into my old bedroom, sat there, rocking back and forth, thinking, ‘This is the same room I was in when I was 13. Now I’m a 26-year-old convict, an armed robber, back at my mom’s house, and my dad didn’t even say hello—he doesn’t really want me here.’ My dad hated tattoos, and I wanted to get back at him. So I got up, went to the living room, and sat on the ottoman right in front of the TV. I had taken off my shirt, showing off the big tattoo on my chest, and was just about to say something when my mom came out, perfect timing, and asked, ‘Mijo, do you want some cookies and milk?’
Danny put his anger aside and started living life on his own terms.
“I remember the first person I tried to help. I saw this old lady struggling to pull out her trash, so I walked over to her. I’ll never forget what she said: ‘Don’t rob me, Danny!’ She never took her eyes off me, expecting me to run off with her lawnmower or something. But I just helped her with her trash.
No one trusted the guy who had once terrorized the neighborhood, but Danny didn’t give up. He learned how to help others, started giving out his number, and eventually, people would call him for help. Danny got sober and found a decent job, but one day, he had an unexpected visitor.
“Gilbert pulled up in a new Lincoln. He’d only been out of prison for two weeks, and he already had everything going for him. Meanwhile, I looked like I’d just escaped from a Vietnamese prison—covered in grease, working in a wrecking yard. He asked, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I told him, ‘Shut up, Gilbert, I’m working.’ He just shook his head and said, ‘This is embarrassing, man.’ After a day of working in the dirt, he handed me two quarters of heroin and $1,000, telling me to get my life together, leave that job, and come work for him instead.”
Growing up, Danny idolized Gilbert—he was the person Danny admired the most. But eventually, there came a moment when Danny had to break away. “Gilbert, I can’t, man. F*** you,” Danny said, walking away from him for the first time. Alone, Danny was left to reflect on his choices.
That was the turning point—Danny decided he wouldn’t let Gilbert’s influence control him anymore.
When Gilbert overdosed and died, it was a devastating blow. Danny’s cousin, who had seen Gilbert as a big brother, was the one who found him. Even though Danny had chosen a different path, his love for Gilbert never faded—Gilbert had meant the world to him.
But after Gilbert’s death, Danny found himself slipping back into his old habits.
At that time, a young director named Robert Rodriguez was casting for his next movie, fresh off the success of his debut hit. He was working with Antonio Banderas and a newcomer named Salma Hayek. Rodriguez needed someone to play a silent, menacing assassin. When Danny walked in, Rodriguez couldn’t believe it. “Holy s. Who’s that guy? He looks creepy as f,” he thought.
Meeting Salma Hayek was another unforgettable moment for Danny. “She was so stunningly beautiful, you almost wanted to close your eyes and never look at anyone else again,” he said. When Danny showed her his tattoo and said, “That’s a picture of you, honey,” he didn’t get the reaction he expected.
“People are afraid of you, Dan,” she told him. “We’re on a movie set, and people are scared because of how you look.”
That hit Danny hard. It sent him into a spiral of self-hatred. He kept telling himself, “Once a criminal, always a criminal.”
But Danny had misjudged Salma. Just before Thanksgiving, months after the movie wrapped, she called him out of the blue and invited him to her family’s Thanksgiving dinner. Danny was blown away by her kindness. “She didn’t know it, but I almost started crying in the bathroom. She was unbelievably nice.”
That moment changed something in Danny. He realized his past mistakes didn’t have to define him—they could be lessons for growth.
Over the next few years, Danny showed the world who he truly was. He became a real-life hero, saving a young boy with special needs from a car accident. “I just wanted to cry; I knew how scared he was. I told him to use his superpowers and grab me,” Danny recalled. Thanks to his quick thinking, the boy and his grandmother were safe.
Danny’s transformation was undeniable—he had become a different person.
As his reputation grew, Danny was invited to speak all over the country. “One of the most powerful motivational speakers you’ll ever hear is Danny Trejo. He lives by the motto, ‘One day at a time. How do I want to live today?’”
Danny dedicated his life to helping others. He’d drive around with his trunk full of thermal underwear, socks, and T-shirts to hand out to the homeless. “To be my friend, you’ve got to be ready to help someone in need,” he’d say.
He channeled his energy into rehabilitating others. “Trejo’s Tacos isn’t just about great food; it’s about giving back. We’re starting a foundation for autism. Danny’s really come to see the value of life,” a friend said.
Reflecting on his journey, Danny often said, “Everything good that’s happened to me has been because I helped someone else.”
The town where he once caused so much trouble now honors him with a mural. “That mural doesn’t just represent me; it represents everyone who’s turned their life around. It’s about hope. I can change, I can grow, I can dream—and that’s okay.”
